It will be Victorian England but without
the smog or the grumpy queen wrapped
up like death giving hemophilia to all—

donuts would be given out (free)
to all loyal citizens—and this
would be my ideal—
all citizens would be loyal, but not just
to me, but to the donuts as well—

and there would be all kinds from tractor
tire shapes to cream filled and those eating
them would transform into angels—

every street of my ideal will be worth
visiting by all and as one walks down
the street his (or her) age increases by five
years along every passed home—

and when they go back,
they can be young again—

all the parks will already have blankets
and baskets laid out, in chessboard format, and the
ants will ask permission before they carry off
your food (and if you reject them?) well,
they’ll turn from black to red and threaten
to burn you but you can give them a donut
and they’ll turn back to black and go away—

and establishments will be different
and not very well established, but that’s
ok— for this is my ideal—

and the zoos will be
different, too— all of Noah’s animals are allowed
to see themselves in cages—

and the zookeepers will keep
to themselves in their own cage and be their own
exhibit and you can feed them—

(donuts?)

that’s right—

and the national interest will no longer be
for the nation, but for the personal
development of universal love—

each soul will have its mate and
each mate will have its soul—

and my ideal will be Manhattan and every one
of the millions of beaming faces will be people I know(!)—

oh, Walt can you see—
we’re in the same city again—

and there’s Napoleon with the new Napoleon
hat he always wanted—

and Diogenes finally found his lamp—

Hephaestus isn’t overworked and Harpo Marx
actually talks to me—

oh, and look—Christ—eating donuts
for his last supper before he plays
ring-around-the-rosy with Judas
and Ben Jonson—

and when the Romans punctured his side he was
raspberry cream filled, but now the Romans are
his bodyguards and I’m one of his long lost children—

and my house is ideal—a mansion
which houses everyone and can talk
to everyone and clean up after everyone—

Cass Gilbert will be my architect, Salvador
Dali will be the inferior decorator, Arvo
Pärt will compose the doorbell
chimes and Salvatore Quasimodo will let me
use his name on my gate—

and I’ll be happy—

and Louis Armstrong will be addicted to throat lozenges
and all the blonde girls’ voices will sound like Bardot’s—

cars won’t exist and horses will
be employed again, and they will never
tire, and nor will you—

and Sherlock Holmes will have his cocaine
and my friends will always be there—

boredom will be extinct—

all the past presidents will be clouds—
the current one a donut—until he is
a cloud (he can only be a donut
for up to eight years)—

the sun will look like the Raisin Bran
cereal box sun, but even happier—

Previously published in Hudson View (Summer 2009, pp. 44-46).

_________________________________________________
Jonathan Hobratsch teaches English at Pace University and works at Huffington Post. He moved to New York City after receiving his MFA in Creative Writing from Texas State University.

Object(s) to bring back to life: “Monocles, because I don’t like practicality and I enjoy the struggle of grasping with one eye. That said, I would like to bring back enough monocles so that everyone can wear two.”